TRUTH THROUGH IMAGINATION

WHO ARE WE WHEN WE WRITE?

Every morning without fail, I meditate. In the past year, I have missed less than a handful of days: two of which due to the flu and absolute delirium, the other three during my recent move 1100 miles away (in a car with 5 kids, two weimaraners, and two cats howling their misery through the chaos). But other than that: I’m golden.

And then, after drinking my second cuppa Jo and surfing the almighty web, I write. Yessireebob, those magical hours between 4:20 a.m when my alarm goes off, and whenever my kids get up and demand me be their mother (boy that sounds bad!), I live fully inside of my mind–wherever that constitutes “me”. I could discourse all day long about this, but, i have beans and dogs on the stove (us poor arteests call it “indoor camping”), so I won’t.

My question is, when we, the writer, is writing: who are we?

And the closest I can get to an answer is that our cumulative we, is, no longer.

For me, writing feels like a continuation of my meditation on a whole other level. The moving of a body of energy far above the crown, out and into the ether; where all the writer has to do is be still and become the story-filter. Where every opposing aspect of our selves just fucks off: goes fishing; streaking naked in a mass body exodus, reeking havoc on shocked passers by; or, more often than not, blissfully back to sleep. And then, when we are breathing through the roof of our heads, we are left with something other:

the writer, alone.

One of my two favorite poets, Arthur Rimbaud wrote: I is an other. This is how I write. When I’m in that atmosphere–when I am the filter–I am as close to the divine as i think I could ever be. So for all those (you know who you are!) who think me bat-shit-crazy for waking at such an ungodly hour: these are the reasons why. Why I rise eagerly at 4 a.m; why I’m so often smiling; why I still find myself dutifully anchored to the roots of earth, like the photo I sculpted above. Not only do the words take me out of myself, but also, they ground my body-house . . . let it chill after a seriously long day of gravity.

So cheers, my fellow writers and word-chasing dreamers.

(Writer and reader alike: is there any place you’d rather be than awake in the glory of words?)

Hello! This is my first comment on your blog which I’ve just read and found interesting. Although my creativity is best expressed through music – I also write a little, and would like to do more. Its good to read about the lives of writers, and I wish you well with your work.

Hi there. My name is Slim Shady. Wait, no it isn't. My name is Kristin. But you can call me maybe. No wait. Don't do that. I'd probably hit you if you did that. Okay, let's start over. Hi, I'm Kristin, a small Canadian girl/published poet with ginormous dreams who at twelve years old was reading Shakespeare, Keats, and Lord Byron instead of swapping spit and fond memories with boys behind the school like boring, I mean normal girls my age. But me and normal have never really gotten along. So I say screw you normal, the freaks and geeks have got this!
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﻿As you can probably tell, I have authority issues. That may be because I grew up trying to convince a largely nay-saying world that it's cool to be a dreamer/writer who wears their heart on their sleeve while enjoying the view from the clouds: the happy white cumulus kind, as well as the brooding thunderclap monsters with big nasty teeth. Thus it is, from this vantage point, I write. The pretty, the strange, the terrifying and hilariousness every damn beautiful day.
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When I am not at my day job caring for the elderly, I'm cajoling with the worlds and people and beauty and host of dead philosophers and poets in my head.
I love The Stand and The Dark Tower series by Stephen King, any and all Haruki Murakami, Antoine de Saint Exupery, and am a fool for Harry Potter; Rimbaud, Eliot, Rilke, Shakespeare (surprise!), Rumi, Basho, and Hafiz, all who help me remember why I am here.
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I believe in love and that I can fly--even touch the sky. But come hell or high fucking water, I refuse to believe in the word maybe. So don't call me maybe. I much prefer girl who never gave up. The girl who one day dipped her fingers into the clear blue sky and discovered what it tastes like to realize her dreams.
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(But seriously, kissing is good. I highly recommend it.)